Decisions Decisions
by librarianmum
Summary: Martin has a big decision to make - is it the right time to break the MJN family up? Contains spoilers for Yverdon-Les-Bains.
1. Chapter 1

**OK, so this is a fandom I don't normally write for, but having listened to the last episode of Cabin Pressure the other night, I just HAD to respond to the evil genius of John Finnemore, threatening to keep us all on tenterhooks for a few months. Uncannily like a certain Stephen Moffatt... Anyway, this is set immediately after the ending of Yverdon-Les-Bains, so contains spoilers for that episode.  
**

**BTW, before anyone asks, I know that it would be highly unprofessional for Herc and Captain Deroche to text each other as they do in this story and that it wouldn't really happen...but hey, suspend your disbelief.  
**

**All belongs to John Finnemore - if asked to fill in a satisfaction survey for him, I would go down Arthur's route of creating an extra box called 'BRILLIANT'.**

* * *

It felt odd to be climbing aboard G-ERTI once more; familiar and yet unfamiliar, as if something undefinable had changed in his brief absence. Or was that fanciful?

For weeks now, he'd been wondering what it would be like to leave her behind. With MJN's often chaotic schedule, where flights were likely to be cancelled at short notice, each time he'd flown her, each time he'd landed, he'd wondered _Is this it? Is this the last time?_ Each time, as the post-landing checks were completed, he'd run a gentle hand across her flight deck while Douglas pretended not to notice.

Now, stepping into the cockpit alone, the Captain's seat seemed oddly different, as if it had been moved, which was, of course, impossible. But something was different… she'd allowed someone else to sit _here_ – in _his _seat. Well, of course they would have had to, he knew that either Douglas or Herc must have sat there during the flight to Antibes, with all the passenger seats already taken. He wondered whether it had been Herc as a passenger, or whether Douglas had controlled the flight from the Captain's chair, as he had no doubt wanted to do for years.

He sat in _his _seat and ran his hand across the flight deck again, crooning under his breath. "Moved on from me already have you, old girl?"

It would be another twenty minutes before they could be cleared to fly, and the walk-around and logs and flight plan had already been completed and filed, but he was happy to sit here alone for a while. Somewhere behind him, in the galley, he could hear Arthur chatting away happily about the toblerones he'd managed to get (one of every type, as far as Martin could tell). That light, ever-enthusiastic voice was punctuated from time to time by Caroline's sharp tone and Douglas's rumbling replies – they were have one of their periodic if rather aimless arguments about something; he didn't know what. Probably one of Douglas's 'transactions'.

At least sitting here meant he could avoid that knowing look that Herc had directed at him when he'd announced that Swiss Air would let him know about the job.

He didn't know what had given him away. He knew he was a terrible liar, but normally, he would expect sharp-eyed Douglas to pick up on any evasions. Perhaps the very act of turning away from Douglas slightly as he spoke was what had raised Captain Shipwright's suspicions.

_What on_ _earth_ had made him say it? Finally – _finally!_ – his dream had come true. Someone was prepared to _pay _him to fly. Someone believed in him enough to spend actual _money _on him. And he would fly with several captains who would respect his skill as a first officer. He would actually learn something _useful_ from them, instead of spending every flight with the same sarcastic first officer who enjoyed embarrassing him on a regular basis. He would have a chance to develop his skills on decent planes without parts that kept falling off or giving out. And, when he finally made captain, he would have _earned_ it.

And he would finally be able to _show_ Douglas – Douglas, the man who thought he shouldn't bother to apply. The man who, quite frankly, wouldn't acknowledge the manual if it rose up and bit him on the nose. Visions of Qikiqtarjuac and the polar bears danced through his mind. OK, so he'd softened a bit over the years, and Martin might even go so far as to count him as a friend, albeit the type of friend that one could never trust with one's deepest darkest secrets, but…

…And think of Mum and Simon and Caitlin visiting him in some chic little Swiss apartment in Zurich instead of his drafty attic bedsit in Fitton – _that _would show them.

And Carolyn _wanted_ him to go! She regretted not paying him – that showed how much her feelings towards him had changed, as he was pretty sure she didn't care less how he lived when he first started with MJN. And she'd warned him – hadn't she? – that MJN _would_ fold sooner or later and that it would be easier for him to find another job while he was still employed…

And yet…

And yet… _Yes_, MJN _was_ hanging on by the skin of its teeth, but did he really want to be the one to sound the death knell?

Carolyn would never be able to afford another pilot, even if Douglas cut his salary, and Martin knew that he really couldn't afford to, with a daughter to support.

It was _Arthur_, bless him, with his boundless enthusiasm and talk of becoming a hotel porter, who had really made Martin hesitate. Arthur of the frankly terrible coffee and the mysteries of 'surprising rice'; Arthur who bounced back after each knock; Arthur who could be guaranteed to keep smiling, even if that smile occasionally got a little strained after an encounter with a particularly obnoxious bunch of over-paid under-worked executives. Arthur, who would do _anything _(in his admittedly limited power) to keep Skip happy – who would even congratulate him on a new job that would mean breaking up the MJN team.

Martin pressed his palm against the edge of the flight deck, hard enough to leave an impression, and considered…

There were footsteps coming into the cockpit; expecting Douglas, he didn't look around immediately. It was only when the individual squeezed past his seat to get to the first officer's seat – and didn't have to squeeze _quite _as much as Douglas had to these days, due to a gradually expanding waistline – that he looked up.

Captain Hercules Shipwright eased himself into the first officer's seat – _no_, into _Douglas's _seat.

Martin looked at him in surprise. "Herc? Where's Douglas?"

Herc shrugged his shoulders. "The debate goes on. Something about a consignment of Rolex watches, although to be honest, I tuned out a while ago. How Douglas managed to set up a deal when we only decided to pick you up on the way back is beyond me. And I _really_ don't know why he bothers. Carolyn is like a Rottweiler when it comes to using her plane for his nefarious plans." He leaned back in his seat, giving Martin an inscrutable look.

Martin looked away, uneasily, trying to avoid those keen, intelligent eyes.

He'd always admired Herc from afar – he epitomised the ideal captain as far as Martin was concerned. Authoritative, calm, competent, still handsome in an understated way, pleasant and – above all – professional. All the qualities that Martin had tried, and failed, to emulate. Unlike Douglas, who'd blotted his copy book at Air England, Herc was a _success_. He'd risen to the top of his profession and, when his airline had been taken over, he had walked oh so casually into a job at Swiss Air; fully confident that they would take him on. As, of course, they had. No impassioned speeches for _him_, in a last-ditch attempt to save the interview from hell.

"They offered you the job, didn't they?"

"How do you know that?" Martin muttered, fiddling with the controls.

"I know Madeleine Deroche." Herc pulled out his mobile and waved it at Martin. "I'd asked her to let me know how you got on, and she texted me – I received it when we arrived, just before we met you. I was going to tell the others, but I thought I ought to leave that pleasure to _you_."

Martin looked up at him, expecting to see condemnation or perhaps a mocking expression, but Herc's face was surprisingly gentle.

"I _could_ tell her, you know. She cares about you. She wants what's best for her pilot."

"And what about her _other_ pilot?" Martin countered.

Herc looked a little startled. "Douglas? He's a survivor, always has been. It wouldn't be easy for him, but he'd get by. I wouldn't base your decision on what might happen to _Douglas_, Martin."

"And what about Arthur? Who'd employ him, apart from his own mother? And what about Carolyn? You must care about what she'd do, how she'd live if MJN went under, surely?"

Herc sighed. "_Look_, Martin. You've given five years of your life to MJN Air, which is very generous of you, considering your somewhat unusual conditions of service. And yet, despite your sacrifices and Douglas's ingenuity and Carolyn's paring of the budget to the bare bones, the company is no more secure _now_ than it was when you started. In fact, it's probably less so due to wear and tear on G-ERTI. The reality is that the current economic situation is not kind to small one-plane operations like Carolyn's. The millionaires with spare cash to spend on indulgent private trips will become fewer in number. If she has any sense, she'll try to sell to a bigger company _now_, before G-ERTI falls apart entirely – then at least she'll have something to retire on, and something to support Arthur with."

He looked very intently at Martin. "Your decision to stay or leave won't change the outcome. It's inevitable, and all you'll do is delay things slightly – and possibly make it even more painful when it finally happens."

"But at least -," Martin began, and stopped, embarrassed. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say _but at least we'd be together_, but then that sounded ridiculously sentimental. As if _Douglas_ or even Carolyn would care one jot if Martin stuck with them to the bitter end.

Herc looked at him thoughtfully. "You would learn a lot at Swiss Air. Frankly, you should have gone into a bigger organisation in the first place – started from the bottom and worked your way up. It would have been a far more sensible career path. You could have been a senior first officer by now with plenty of varied experience behind you. You lack confidence, and you're not helped by having a first officer who frequently knocks you back. Oh, I don't think he _means_ to, not _really_. But life has become one long joke for Douglas. He had his opportunities, both in his professional and personal life, and he messed things up – and he knows it. He has no ambition beyond winning the contents of the next cheese tray and making just enough money to hold on to his precious Lexus."

Martin felt bound to stick up for his friend. "That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong – I don't _dislike_ Douglas – but I _know_ him a little too well by now. It's not that his age counts against him – OK, yes, it's not easy for fifty-something pilots to find new work – but it's _more_ than that. It's about attitude. He's a maverick – a brilliant, instinctive pilot who doesn't need to worry about the manual like us mere mortals - but he _hates_ going by the book. Always has done. That's why, when he hinted to me that he might like to move to Cal Air, I put him off immediately. I wouldn't have minded working with him, but he would have been utterly miserable in that environment. A square peg in a round hole. That's why he messed up so badly at Air England."

He smiled at Martin. "Whereas _you_ – you're still young enough and flexible enough to adapt. Tell the truth now – you'd live _anywhere _in the world if you could be paid to do what you love, wouldn't you?"

He nodded; he couldn't deny it.

"And that's the opportunity that Herr Bider has given you. Truth be told, I'm not surprised that he gave you a chance; he's a mischievous little sod in his own way – likes to ruffle feathers and keep his staff on their toes. Which is no bad thing; it would be pretty boring if we were all the same."

Martin's lips twitched. "Can I assume that her text was less than complimentary about his decision, then?"

Herc smirked. "Oh, I think that's a little snippet of information that should remain between Captain Deroche and I. But don't judge by what you saw of her at the interview; she's not a bad sort when you get to know her."

He looked over his shoulder at the cockpit door. "Judging by the general reduction in decibel levels, some kind of compromise has been reached. We may even make our allocated slot, miracle of miracles." He stood up, stretching his enviably lean, tall figure. "So… are you _really_ going to turn them down?"

Martin stared up at him in surprise. "You mean you're _not_ going to tell Carolyn?"

Herc shrugged. "Not my place to tell her, is it?"

"I… I'll give it some thought," Martin managed.

Herc looked down at him, with an odd look on his face - Martin might have even thought it was admiration if that didn't seem so unlikely. "If it helps with the decision, Martin, may I say that it would be an _honour_ to fly with you as my first officer. I mean that genuinely."

Martin had to turn away quickly to blink back the sudden moisture in his eyes. "It – yes, it _does_ help actually, Herc. Thank you."

"Something else too." Herc's voice was very quiet. "If you think that Douglas doesn't care what happens to you, you'd be mistaken. Even on the flight out, he said -."

He broke off suddenly, as the man in question appeared in the doorway, looking decidedly ruffled.

"That bloody woman! Frankly, I don't know _how_ you put up with her."

"I _heard_ that!" Carolyn shouted from the galley. "Well, Martin, is there _any _reason at all why we're still sitting here admiring the Swiss scenery? _Chop, chop_, pilots. I'd like us to at least _try_ to get home on schedule, just for a pleasing change."

"_One _case, that's all it was. Hardly any extra weight at all. And it was _her_ idea to come here in the first place. Just because I wanted to do an old friend a favour…" Douglas pushed an impatient hand through his floppy hair and glared at Herc. "Any chance you could vacate my seat at some point _before_ we take off? I would _hate_ to inconvenience you, of course, _Captain_."

Herc held up his hands. "Not at all, _First Officer_. If you would care to step back a little, I'm sure we can manoeuvre past each other in this increasingly small environment. _Strange_ that it seems to get smaller each time, isn't it? How _is_ that diet going?"

He gave Martin a final enigmatic smile as he disappeared from view.

Still grumbling a little, Douglas squeezed past Martin and flopped in his own seat. "Ready to operate back then, Captain? Don't mind me if I have a snooze on the way, will you? I'm not sure that Arthur's bastardisation of chilli con carne has entirely agreed with my digestion."

"Not at all," replied Martin, whereas once he would have grumbled at the lack of professionalism.

Douglas gave him a sharp look. "So what did Herc the Berk have to say, then?"

Martin paused with his hand over the comm, ready to call the Tower for clearance. "Oh, nothing much."

Douglas grunted. "Don't listen to him. He might look harmless, but he's an old rogue really."

"Takes one to know one," Martin countered, as he pressed the comm button. "Tower, this is Golf Echo Romeo Tango India, request start for Fitton."

"_Roger, Golf Tango India, clear to start_."

Douglas leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "OK, here's one. Love songs that don't contain the word 'love' in them. I'll bet you the camembert…"

Martin groaned, even as a warm glow of contentment spread through his belly. He patted the flight deck affectionately, as his First Officer looked the other way, evidently distracted by something.

Yes, a decision had to be made, but it could wait until tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh dear... this was supposed to be a one-off, but I just couldn't let it go without a contribution from my beloved Douglas. Mainly because 1. I think I was a bit mean to him in ch 1 (and I can't bear to be mean to Douglas), and 2. there is NO WAY that Martin could have such a big secret for long without Douglas finding out.**

**This chapter is a bit angsty, and it might be a tad OOC for Douglas, I'm not sure. Would appreciate any reviews if you feel like leaving one!**

* * *

Douglas Richardson sat down in his tatty old armchair, loosened his tie and surveyed his surroundings without much enthusiasm.

It was a decent enough modern flat in an up-and-coming area of town – a euphemism for a dump that was gradually being gentrified. It had been well within Douglas' budget following his divorce. It was stark and airy, which suited Douglas fine – he hated clutter. He also loathed cleaning with a passion, and one of the advantages of this new build was that it lacked carpets and all the annoying little dusty niches of older houses. Particularly when one was a pilot for a charter airline and therefore quite often away for days at a time, it was good to come home to a flat that required minimum effort to keep clean and tidy.

No, it wasn't the _flat_ that was the problem. It was Helena's furniture.

When he'd bought the house in central Fitton, after getting the job at MJN Air, he was married to his third wife and he had fully intended that she should be his last. Despite appearances, Douglas was something of a romantic – or perhaps that was just a consequence of his advancing years? Anyway, those pretty, sexy stewardesses of his youth no longer held any appeal. Helena was the perfect wife – beautiful in a natural manner that didn't threaten to fade with the years, clever, funny and ambitious in her own right, as an in-demand bespoke decorator of precisely the type of large classic upper-middle-class house in which they resided. She was also some fifteen years younger than him - nearer to Martin's age than his own. In the first flush of love, he could deny her nothing.

It was she who had designed the house; she who had spent the money he had willingly handed over to decorate and furnish the entire house – it seemed a fair transaction at the time: his money and her expertise. He'd left all his previous furniture to Catherine, his second wife, so he had been happy to accept Helena's choices.

There was nothing actually _wrong_ with the furniture – it was perhaps a tad too feminine and fussy for Douglas, but it _had_ suited their spacious rooms. In his new, far smaller flat, the sofa and the occasional tables and the elaborate display cabinets looked too big and over-fussy.

Naturally, he'd offered to leave them with her, but she'd left all but her personal possessions behind when she'd left him for her Tai Chi instructor and had showed no interest in reclaiming them. Once the house was sold, she'd accepted half of the proceeds with a friendly lack of concern for the minutiae. In fact, she remained the most congenial of his three ex-wives – possibly because she was the only one of the three who had done the leaving. As far as _she_ was concerned, she'd already moved on, and had no interest in the furniture or pictures that she had so lovingly picked out a few years before.

It was small consolation that the Tai Chi instructor hadn't lasted more than a couple of months beyond their separation. Helena was going places – she was now in her early forties and forging out a successful career in London. The reality was that he should never have married her in the first place - he should have looked ahead and recognised the fact that she'd probably never viewed their marriage as anything but a temporary diversion. He'd been blinded by love – and quite possibly the desperation of a newly divorced man in his early fifties.

So, the furniture had come with him to this glorified bachelor pad. It was only ever intended to be a temporary move, because of course she'd realise her mistake and come back. Later on, when he might have chucked the furniture out with her memories, he clung to them with a sentimentality that surprised him. Later still, when the pain subsided and she became merely a pleasant memory, he decided that he couldn't be bothered to change anything. Besides which, it would have been expensive, and he had recently become uncomfortably aware that he was not that many years off retirement… and that, while he was still providing financial support to his teenaged daughter by his first wife, he really didn't have that much spare cash to flash around.

Also, just recently, he'd become aware that retirement might be closer than he had anticipated – or wanted.

One of the only pieces of furniture that he'd picked out back in their early days had been a classic second-hand armchair that reminded him of one that had belonged to his grandfather. He'd found it in an antique store. Helena had been amused but indulgent, provided that the chair was tucked away in his study, out of sight of the main rooms. It was the one item that he would have insisted on holding on to, had she reclaimed any of their joint possessions.

He leaned back in 'his' chair and picked up his mug of coffee, heaving another sigh. His lower back was painful – an ailment that was becoming a little too common after a full day's flying for his liking. He knew he was somewhat unfit these days – and he couldn't put it entirely down to his advancing years. He'd always had a tendency to gain weight, but had somehow managed to keep himself fit enough to pass the regular CAA health checks. Now, he wasn't sure he _would_ pass the next.

It had been a long day, and normally he would have felt hungry by now, if it hadn't been for Arthur's misadventure with the lunchtime chilli con carne. Douglas had expensive tastes where food was concerned and was an excellent cook – perhaps too excellent at times, he thought, rubbing his stomach rather ruefully. Anyway, his stomach was just recovering, and it would probably be sensible to stick to dry toast tonight.

In any case, he wasn't sure he had the energy to cook - or the ability to focus on the process. Not after today.

They'd waved Martin off at Heathrow on his flight for his interview with Swiss Air (was it really only this morning?) before flying Mr Aliakin's latest bunch of potential yacht buyers on to Antibes. Herc had been smugger and more irritating than ever, Arthur's coffee had been even more execrable than normal, if that were humanly possible, and Carolyn had been her usual penny pinching self. So far, so MJN Air.

Martin's absence had unsettled him. Oh, he'd flown solo before; there had been times when they'd been able to get away with a single pilot, usually on short-haul cargo-only flights. He didn't mind all that much – he was confident in his abilities to handle G-ERTI single-handedly, and it made a change not to have to comply with the captain's over-fussy dictates.

Maybe the difference _this_ time had been the addition of Herc. Perhaps having another pilot in the cockpit had bought Martin's absence home to him, even though that addition had been a pilot who was not qualified to fly G-ERTI and who was merely there for show, to meet the demands of the customer.

Maybe it was because Herc was sitting in Martin's seat. _Martin's_ seat.

When he'd first joined MJN Air, just prior to Martin, he'd fully expected that it would be _his_ chair by right, as the senior, more experienced pilot. When he'd first met the little, red-faced, fussy and rather unconfident young man, it had seemed hardly possible that such a miserable specimen would be allowed to sit in it. In the early years, he'd taken pleasure from sitting in the captain's seat whenever he flew solo – and in making sure that Martin had _known_ he had. More recently, it had seemed wrong for that chair to be taken by anyone _but_ Martin.

And maybe _that_ had been the real issue. He'd behaved badly on the morning flight; he'd known it about halfway through when he'd realised with horror that, for some reason, he'd been channelling the worst excesses of Martin in the early days – the defensiveness; the needless claiming of pathetic 'rights' of seniority. But the reality was that seeing Herc sitting in that chair had brought home the fact that Martin might not be sitting there for much longer, if he got the job at Swiss Air. Even if he didn't, he'd be on the lookout for other jobs – and he was a keen and relatively young pilot, who would be willing to move anywhere and work for any airline. Eventually, _some_ employer would overlook his more irritating characteristics and his indifferent flying skills, even if Swiss Air _didn't_.

And once Martin was no longer available to sit in the captain's seat, how much longer would Douglas have a job?

Douglas wasn't stupid; he knew the score and had been making backup plans. He knew how lucky he'd been to get the job with MJN Air. He'd pushed the boundaries at Air England once too often, and shouldn't have been surprised to find himself unemployed in his early fifties, but he _had_ been.

The months after his dismissal had been a humiliating struggle – and a wake-up call. No one wanted to employ a pilot that had been 'let go' by such a large and prestigious airline, and particularly not a man who had less than fifteen years to go until retirement. The stress of that period had sounded the death knell for his short and never particularly robust second marriage (he'd spent most of the wedding reception subtly flirting with Catherine's pretty young friend Helena, for crying out loud).

Helena hadn't objected to moving to Fitton with him when the opportunity to work for MJN Air arose, and he had counted his blessings, but he had also not been idle. He could see that Carolyn was struggling to get her new charter company going, so he had been making quiet enquires among his aviation colleagues even in the early days. He now had a list of useful contacts tucked away for a rainy day. There were plenty of charter airlines in the UK who, at one time or another, were looking for a reliable, experienced pilot to fill in whenever their younger more ambitious employees left them suddenly for more prestigious airlines. He had made sure his name was known in the right circles. He'd even had a couple of highly informal interviews – pleasant interactions in hotel bars that didn't involve CVs and references – and Douglas had a natural knack for charming potential employers.

Oh yes, he'd be able to make out all right. It might not be particularly well-paid work, but Douglas had made some rather clever investments in some off-shore locations too, and was reasonably confident about his future should MJN fold.

The only downside was that a regular job with one of those charter airlines might require him to leave Fitton … and he was getting to the age where he wanted to settle _somewhere_, alone or not. He wanted a _home_.

He'd disliked Fitton at first sight for its bland, modern feel – it was one of those anonymous Midlands towns that appeared to have developed purely because of its airfield and its useful distance from a number of more-important locations. He'd also hated the inconvenient distance from Lucy, who lived in Barrow-in-Furness with her mother and was too young to understand why she couldn't stay with Dad in his smart Manchester flat every other weekend any more.

However, as time had passed, he'd developed a vague affection for the place. Insofar as _anywhere_ was home (he'd moved around quite a bit before settling into that senior position at Air England's Manchester hub from which he was sacked), Fitton had come to fit that bill.

And, insofar as _anyone_ could be considered family … _that_ was precisely, rather to his surprise, what the MJN crew had _become _for him. Family. His daughter had grown up without him around for most of the time, and now had a new stepfather that she occasionally called 'Dad'. His ex-wives were little more than reasonably civil acquaintances. His parents were dead and he saw little of his brother these days. So, yes – a fussy, silly little Captain, an amiable if muzzy-headed steward and a miserly if gruffly compassionate employer had become _his _family – or what passed for one. How _ridiculous_ … and yet, how appropriate.

And he didn't want to lose it.

Sometimes it had seemed as if they would go on forever – he and Martin having heated conversations over regulations and equally heated battles over the cheese tray, which he would of course win; Arthur's cheery face appearing at regular intervals to offer dubious food or drink and opportunities for good-natured teasing; Carolyn's acid comments over the intercom. Even as he'd logged his contacts and kept a weather eye on his investments, it didn't seem possible that Carolyn would _actually_ have to give up her business, or that Martin would _actually_ seek another job.

OK, so he'd been a little shocked by Martin's revelation that Carolyn didn't pay him, but it sounded as if Martin managed to get by, what with his delivery work. Alright, so the boy lived in some awful student bedsit and appeared to work all the hours God sent and didn't seem to have much of a social life as a result, but … well, that was up to _him_, wasn't it? And, OK, perhaps he _did _feel a little selfish sometimes, but it wasn't in Douglas' interest to encourage Martin to leave, not when Carolyn was paying _him _a nice little salary. So, although he had tried to encourage developments in Martin's love life over the years (an attached Martin would probably be a happier Martin who would be less inclined to leave his job), he had also been careful not to encourage the captain to seek employment elsewhere.

It _had_ occurred to him that Carolyn might be able to replace Martin with another fool who was prepared to work for limited or no pay – perhaps some retired but still keen aviator. He had even briefly wondered whether Herc's obvious affection for Carolyn might lead the man to leave his job at Cal Air … but he had just as quickly dismissed that notion. Herc was no fool and had his own reasons for needing a decent salary, and in any case, Douglas wasn't sure he could stomach _Herc_ of all people as a replacement for Martin.

The truth was he rather _liked_ Martin. He looked forward to their skirmishes and didn't even object to the rare occasions on which the captain actually _won_ a bet – the occasions were rare enough that the novelty hadn't worn off, and a small, slightly squishy part of his heart welcomed the sight of the younger man glowing with rare pride. Martin lacked confidence in most aspects of his life. Douglas had come to realise that the dogged, almost fanatical, insistence on rules and regulations was a mere screen for his colleague's insecurities, and he would have had to have been a completely cold-hearted bastard not to rejoice whenever Martin had an unusually good day. Even if it had been at the expense of the camembert.

The idea of carrying on at MJN Air without Martin left him feeling cold inside. He'd told himself that he didn't really mind – that he'd worked with many pilots over the years and would soon adjust to a new colleague wherever he ended up. And it was true that Douglas was a charmer when he chose to be and flexible enough to cope with most personality types. At Air England, in a situation where crews were frequently changed around and he rarely flew with the same colleague more than once every few months, he'd adjusted quite happily and had gained a reputation for being pleasant to fly with, both as a cheery, sociable first officer and then as an unusually lenient and easy-going captain.

But the situation was obviously very different with MJN. In his five years with Carolyn's 'airdot' he'd flown more hours with Martin than he had with any pilot in nearly twenty five years at Air England. In fact, the scary thing was that, once he added up all the long-haul flights and the long stopovers at the whim of some moneyed businessman, he'd probably spent more time with Martin, Arthur and Carolyn than he had with Helena during their two-and-a-half-year marriage.

And, call Douglas a sentimental old fool, but he knew that these last few years with this disparate band of ill-matched individuals might perhaps turn out to be the defining period of his life, apart the birth of his daughter. And yet it might all be torn apart, on the say-so of some anonymous interviewer at Swiss Air.

Or would it?

His coffee grew cold as he shut his eyes, recalling the later events of the day.

After a speedy turnaround at Antibes, Carolyn had made the suggestion that they divert to Yverdon-les-Baines on the way home to collect Martin. He had been quite surprised; it was not usual for Carolyn to suggest a kind act that would cost her more money – even the new, softer, more maternal Carolyn that he had seen glimpses of in recent months. But perhaps she was as keen as he to hear the outcome of Martin's interview. He'd had no strong objection; there was just time to fire off a quick text to Gilles, with whom he'd been trying to arrange a little transaction – and Yverdon-les-Baines was actually more convenient for his Swiss associate than next month's tentatively-suggested pick-up location had been.

And so they had landed there and Carolyn had allowed Arthur to run ahead to track down Martin – even _he_ shouldn't be able to miss their colleague in the town's little airport. Douglas had been detained slightly by a call from Gilles, and Herc had seemed equally distracted by a message on his mobile, but eventually they had caught up with Martin and had heard those deadly words 'they'll let me know'. Meaning they would shortly send him a letter of regret.

He was hardly surprised, not having _seriously _expected _Martin_ of all people to impress the Swiss Air interview panel – for heaven's sake, the man stuttered enough with people who spoke his own language, so goodness knows how he'd come across to someone who spoke English as a second language. And then there was his unimpressive appearance (however hard he tried, he looked nothing like a pilot), obvious lack of confidence, almost non-existent interview experience and indifferent flying skills. No, not surprising at all, really.

Ah, well, Martin would get over it eventually. He'd carry on flying for Carolyn, slightly battered but wiser for the experience. Eventually, Douglas would get the interview details out of him and then try to offer him some sound advice for the next one. And, if the worse came to the worse and MJN _did_ fold leaving Martin unemployed, well then, perhaps Douglas would be able to hand his captain's name to one of his charter contacts. That would be a nice thing to do.

Busily engaged with giving his captain a quick pat on the back and murmuring reassurances while simultaneously planning his rendezvous with Gilles and the case full of Rolex watches, he didn't pay much heed to the odd look that Herc was directing at Martin.

And then the whole deal went pear-shaped when it turned out that Carolyn didn't appreciate her plane being used for the transportation of what she described as 'dodgy goods' (the _very idea_ – they were perfectly genuine pieces, and he really _was_ just doing a minor favour for a few quid). Still ruffled from his argument, which had ended with his boss reluctantly agreeing to carry the case but deducting two hundred pounds from his next pay, he hadn't paid much attention to the fact that Herc had been talking to Martin and that both men were looking rather serious. It was far easier to accept Martin's casual brush off and launch into the next game in order to distract himself from the fact that Arthur's ill-advised lunch wasn't really agreeing with his digestion.

And so the flight passed, as so many had done before, with Martin getting flustered and failing to think of more than one or two love songs that didn't contain the word 'love' anywhere in the lyrics. In fact one of his suggestions _did_ contain one example of the word 'love', but Douglas hadn't had the heart to point it out, particularly as he'd won the game by twenty-two points to two. He thought it had been remarkably kind-hearted of him, actually, to try to take Martin's mind off the interview, which had probably been quite appalling. At some point, he fully intended to inveigle the full gory details out of his colleague, but it seemed a little harsh to do so today.

Mid-flight, his gut twisted uncomfortably and he excused himself. The next twenty minutes or so in the small toilet were probably not the most pleasant in his life, and he cursed himself for blithely assuming that even Arthur couldn't get a chilli con carne microwave meal wrong. However, it could have been a lot worse, and he felt considerably better by the time he emerged.

A glance down the plane showed Carolyn dozing slightly in the front row, with Herc sitting next to her, reading a book. They looked strangely comfortable together – he wondered briefly whether this relationship might last a little longer than he had originally imagined. Herc glanced up at him enquiringly, and he gave him a brisk nod and turned towards the front of the plane again.

"Ah, Arthur." He stopped in the little galley, where Arthur stood by the microwave, looking deep in thought (insofar as Arthur could look deep in _anything_). "I just wanted to thank you for the interesting attempt at lunch, which has given me some traumatic moments in the lavatory since. _Honestly_, how difficult can it _be_? You _can_ read the instructions, can't you – ten minutes on, two minutes off, all that stuff? Hardly rocket science, is it?"

"Hmm?" Arthur seemed lost to the world, frowning into space. "Oh, sorry Douglas. I _think_ that might have been when I got distracted by Mum talking about picking up Snoopadoop from the neighbours on the way home – or was it the milk? I can't remember. Anyway, I'll try to get it right next time."

"Hmm. Well, just so you know, there probably won't _be_ a next time. I shall make sure to pack enough sandwiches." Douglas turned away.

"Um, Douglas, can I ask you something? What does it mean when someone says they dreamt something but they hadn't actually been asleep? I mean, if you dream something, it must be about something that happened _before_ you went to sleep, mustn't it? So if you hadn't had time to go to sleep because it was only two hours ago and you hadn't actually had a chance to go to bed, then you couldn't have dreamt it, could you? Or is it possible to dream stuff when you're awake? I mean, I know that Mum's always going on about _me_ living in a daydream, so maybe it was that type of dream -."

Douglas sighed and put his hand up, halting the flow of words. "What _are_ you talking about, Arthur?" He looked over his shoulder at the steward.

"Well, it's probably nothing really. I mean I probably just didn't understand, and I know I get things wrong all the time, so this is probably just another me-being-wrong. It was just something that Skip said when we picked him up."

Douglas frowned, turning around. "_What _did Martin say?"

"Well, it was before you were there. When I first saw him, and I asked him how it went. See, I was confused because then when you came, he said something else, and I didn't know what was really the truth."

"_Arthur_," Douglas spoke very slowly and carefully, "I want you to tell me _exactly_ what Martin said."

"Oh, well, I asked him how it went and I _think_ he said that he got the job, or something. Or maybe he didn't – I don't know – because after I said how pleased I was _then_ he kept going on about how it wasn't good news for anyone else, and then I said that Mum would make him take it anyway, whether he wanted to or not, and then he got a _bit_ panicky - you know, like he does - and started going on about how it might have just been a dream or something… which is when I got _really_ confused. Because then he said what he said to you and Mum, and I wasn't sure which _was_ the dream – him getting the job or them letting him know later on."

Douglas froze to the spot, unable to move or even _think_ for a moment. _Oh, god_.

"Are you OK, Douglas? I'm _really_ sorry about the lunch – I didn't mean to make you feel sick -."

"No, no – I'm fine." He gave Arthur a reassuring smile and, after giving him a slightly uncertain look, Arthur picked up Martin's freshly brewed mug of tea and took it to the cockpit.

His first instinct was anger. What the _hell_ was Martin playing at?

He leant against the galley doorway, feeling an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with poorly cooked food and everything to do with the cold fury that was rising inside him.

"You _idiot_! You complete _child_!" He clenched his fists and turned towards the cockpit, prepared to give Martin a piece of his mind. Of _all _the _ridiculous, misguided_, _stupid _ideas that Martin had ever had, this really took the biscuit…

His progress was halted by a firm hand on his arm. He hadn't noticed that Herc had left his seat in the passenger section.

"_Don't_. Just _don't_."

Douglas brushed off his hand, irritably. "What are you on about now?"

"He's _not_ a child and it's _his _decision." Herc's voice was level and quiet, clearly intended not to draw attention from either a drowsy Carolyn or a confused Arthur.

Douglas looked at him in dawning disbelief. "You _knew_? All along?"

Herc shrugged lightly. "I have my contacts."

"And you thought – what? That this could, _in any way_, be considered a good idea?" The burning anger was rising in him again, this time conveniently addressed towards Herc. "What are you _playing_ at?"

"This has nothing to do with me, Douglas, whatever you may think."

"But you haven't convinced him to do the right thing? Come _on_, Herc," Douglas stepped closer to him, lowering his voice. "You know he should take that job – and you know how persuadable he can be."

"I'm not his father, Douglas," Herc replied, very softly. "And neither are _you_."

"And what the hell's _that _supposed to mean?" Douglas hissed.

"Oh, I think you know _perfectly_ well."

"Er - everything OK, chaps?"

They jumped apart as Arthur emerged from the cockpit, giving them a bemused look.

Herc smiled at him. "Absolutely fine, Arthur. I think your mum might be ready for her afternoon tea. She appeared to be coming around, last time I looked."

"Righto, Herc." And Arthur bustled into the galley, without sparing them another glance.

Douglas glared at Herc as he made his way back to the cockpit.

"Feeling better?" Martin gave him a knowing and sympathetic look – he'd been at the receiving end of one of Arthur's culinary disasters enough times.

"Much, thank you."

He sank into his seat, casting around for something to say. The truth was that the few minutes with Herc had been long enough to stop him going in, all guns blazing, to have it out with Martin there and then. It wouldn't be sensible to have a go at the stupid boy while he was still flying them home – the cockpit space was far too small and intimate to contain an out-and-out argument.

Instead, he needed to test the water.

He cleared his throat to break the unaccustomed silence, aware that Martin had shot a surprised glance in his direction.

"So, how did it go, then?"

Martin's shoulders tensed, but his voice was level. "Not too bad, all considered. I mean, I offended her _before_ the interview even started, and then I stuttered over most of the questions, and then I lost my temper when they accused me of cheating on the exam." His voice began to rise a little, as it always did when he became agitated. "How do you _think _it went, Douglas? After all, you know me well enough by now. I mean, you didn't really think it would go smoothly, did you?"

"I'm sorry, Martin." That seemed safe enough, and it was true anyway. He _was_ sorry. Sorry to think that the man he'd worked so closely with for five years could be so _stupid_ as to turn down his one big opportunity.

"Yes, well, it doesn't matter now." The younger man seemed to find something on the horizon utterly riveting. "The interview was a good experience anyway, as you said."

"And they haven't actually said _no_, have they?" Douglas added, carefully. "They said they would let you know."

Martin was silent, focusing on the flight.

Douglas suppressed a sigh and launched into a light, vaguely amusing story about Arthur's encounter with one of this morning's customers – a slightly embellished tale, naturally, but he had the satisfaction of seeing Martin's mouth curve upwards in amusement. From there, it was natural for them to move to a general moan about some of the more obnoxious passengers they'd flown over the years. The reminiscences flowed and Martin was far more relaxed and had even laughed once or twice by the time that Douglas began the landing preparations.

After landing, Douglas had left the airfield as quickly as possible, ignoring Martin's inevitable, half-resigned huff of indignation as he'd slipped his unfinished paperwork in with the Captain's. He'd waved his hand casually in Carolyn and Arthur's direction, trying to avoid Herc's warning look as he went.

And now he sat here, nursing a mug of cold coffee and still wearing his crumpled uniform as he stared at nothing in particular and tried to sort through his scattered thoughts.

He'd tried to give Martin a nudge – to remind him that they hadn't actually said 'no' and that he still had a chance to accept the job. There was no reason why Martin couldn't tell them the truth in a couple of days; pretend he had only just received the letter of acceptance. He could only hope that he understood – because if the stupid, foolish, ridiculously noble _idiot_ didn't say something in the next couple of days then Douglas would _jolly well_ –

Would jolly well _what_? Tell Carolyn?

If she knew, she'd definitely talk Martin around, in her usual no-nonsense manner. He wouldn't be able to withstand the pressure. And then, when Martin was spluttering with indignation but starting to waver, Douglas would be able to wade in with one of his smooth comments, deceptively light but laced with meaning, and then Martin would realise that accepting the job was the _right_ decision to make. With any luck, he might even believe that he'd come to the decision all by himself. It was the sensible thing to do.

And yet…

It wasn't his place to tell Carolyn. That was the point that Herc was trying to make.

Douglas was the first to admit that he could be a manipulative sod at times – or at least he _would_ be the first if he hadn't already been accused of it by almost everyone he had ever met. He had the ability to assess a situation, sum up the people he was dealing with and have at least three back-up plans in his head at any given time.

Martin was far too simple to manipulate – highly strung, ridiculously easy to tease, inclined to take offence at the mildest criticism and far too unsure of his own worth to be proof against Douglas' witticisms. Within a very short time of meeting him, Douglas had felt confident that he had the younger man's measure and would be able to talk him into specific actions. It was obvious that he'd never shake his Captain's obsessive desire to stick to the regulations, but he _could_, with careful planning, convince Martin make certain decisions and even to believe that they were his own idea in the first place.

For example, during their first year of flying together, Martin had been utterly convinced that it had been his idea _alone_ to divert to Bremen due to bad weather over Berlin - which he had done against the advice of Douglas, who had protested really quite strongly that the storm was not that severe. This meant that, when Carolyn complained, Martin was the one who took the flak – and no one took any notice of the fact that Douglas had also taken the opportunity to deliver the three bottles of Talisker that he'd promised to an old Air England pal who'd happened to be on a layover in Bremen (it was Robbie who'd passed his name onto some of the charter companies and Douglas wanted to repay his loyalty).

It had become too easy to fall into that pattern of manipulation and, rather to his own surprise, Douglas had grown more uneasy about it as the years passed. Martin had grown to _trust _him – God knew why. He'd trusted him with the reality of his conditions of service with MJN; he talked about his family problems; he'd confided in him when things were not going well with his van business and had asked his opinion about how to market it better. He'd told Douglas how much he missed his dad, even though he didn't think the old man thought an awful lot of him; he'd talked about how much he resented his brother and sister for their relevant successes in life. In the dim cabin light of many a night-time flight, he'd _talked_. And Douglas had listened. Had become an unwilling hostage to the misfortunes of one Martin Crieff. Had often wished he could tune out his colleague's voice and not become _involved_. Only, he _had_ become involved, hadn't he?

In that same dim cockpit light, which seemed to invite confidences, he'd bared his own soul too. Had talked of Helena and her betrayal. Had talked of Air England and his fatal mistake. Had talked about his daughter and how much he missed her, and of the reasons why he hadn't had a drink in over ten years. And Martin had listened; had absorbed it all without making judgements or offering unwanted advice – and for that, he was grateful.

And, somehow and very gradually, Douglas had become something else to Martin besides the slightly devious and irreverent First Officer that he appeared to be to those around them. He'd started to offer useful advice; he'd taken it upon himself to jolly Martin out of his occasional depressive moods; he'd tried to protect the Captain from his woeful tendency to take the wrong decision… and he'd secretly rejoiced when Martin had, against all the odds, managed to overcome the shortfalls in his love life to capture the affections of a _princess_, no less.

Herc's words came back to him again. The very idea was utterly ridiculous and offensive - and plain _wrong_. If Douglas ever gave advice to Martin or offered to help him out, it was purely on the basis of a rather enforced friendship. He spent hours with the man, and a moaning or miserable Martin was not pleasant to be with for long periods of time, so clearly he would try to take steps to avoid such a circumstance. Douglas was a naturally selfish creature and happy with it – to suggest that he might try to help anyone for a reason beyond the promotion of his own comfort was – was _insulting_! That's what it was – insulting. And Herc had _no right_ to suggest that Douglas cared about Martin any more than would be expected of a friendly work colleague.

Yes, Douglas _was_ angry with Martin, because he wasn't making the sensible decision. It was unbelievable folly to turn down such a golden opportunity. He was _disappointed_ in Martin. Five years of working alongside _him_, Douglas Richardson, and the silly boy clearly hadn't learnt a thing. He wasn't making the right choice – he wasn't making the decision that _Douglas_ would have made, and that was plainly wrong...

Douglas stopped, replayed his thought processes of the last few seconds and then groaned, squeezing his eyes closed.

_Oh god_.

A mere colleague wouldn't have been _disappointed _by Martin's behaviour. A mere colleague wouldn't have wanted to rail at the 'boy' for making the wrong decision (Martin was 37 for crying out loud!). He wouldn't have had to suppress a desire to put his hand on Martin's shoulder and give him the advice that he would _expect _him to follow.

Herc hadn't been wrong at all. Somehow, his old Air England rival had seen beyond all the bluff and the sarcasm and the lazy insubordination that Douglas chose to project at his captain. Herc had seen beyond all that fakery and had recognised what Martin Crieff had become to Douglas Richardson. What the much younger man represented to a lonely late-middle-aged man with three divorces behind him, a daughter he hardly ever saw and an empty flat to go home to.

Douglas had never considered himself particularly paternal. He'd always been a fun, irresponsible parent. Lucy had been six when he'd got his divorce from Julia. For a brief time, he'd entertained her for weekends at his well-appointed high tech apartment in Manchester – staying up too late; eating popcorn in front of films on his widescreen wall-mounted TV; getting takeaways – all the things that Julia hated. After his marriage to Catherine, the visits had continued, but had ceased when he'd lost his job and his second wife and then moved to Fitton with Helena. At that point, he'd become a far more occasional visitor in his daughter's life, but still a welcome one, who took her on special trips out.

After the well-intentioned but ill-thought-out birthday treat, involving dropping a half-tonne brick of frozen solidified boiled sweets from G-ERTI on top of Julia's prize carp, Douglas' access was strictly curtailed. He could still visit, but only with Julia or her new husband present – Adrian seemed a decent enough chap, if a bit dull. But for all that, Lucy still adored him, although he suspected that she viewed him as some kind of black-sheep fun-loving uncle rather than as her real father. That hurt, just a little, but he could hardly be surprised by it. A more dedicated father might have found a nine-to-five job a little nearer to her home so he could take his fair share of the boring stuff, like school runs and parents evenings… all the boring stuff that _Adrian_ did these days.

So Douglas had come to accept the bleak fact that, although he might be a source of entertainment to his daughter, she didn't actually _need_ him. Julia, Catherine, Helena – none of them needed him either; they had all moved on in their lives.

He'd never _wanted _to be cast in the role of a father figure in his interactions with Martin, Arthur or any of the younger colleagues he'd worked with over the years and yet, somehow, that was what precisely what had happened. Both Arthur and Martin shared a strangely touching (if rather annoying) confidence that, whatever life threw at them, Douglas would be there to 'sort it out'. Whether it was G-ERTI stuck in St Petersburg with only one engine, or Arthur failing his CAA test, or Martin not be able to drive a piano to Devon due to a sprained ankle… it didn't matter, because Douglas _could_ – and _would_ - make things right.

He'd moan and groan about it, muttering about what on _earth_ they would do if he wasn't around, but in fact it gave him some satisfaction to know that they were relying on him – even if it was only whenever some fresh crisis struck. It made him feel _needed_. And Douglas wasn't used to feeling needed any more.

The reality was that he felt _hurt_. Hurt that Martin had concealed something so important from him. Hurt that his young colleague didn't trust him enough to tell him the truth and ask his advice, in the confidence that Douglas' advice would be sound. He understood _why_ Martin was wavering about whether to accept the job, and part of him was warmed by the knowledge that Martin had thought of _him_, and of Carolyn and Arthur, of the impact on _them_. But he wanted Martin to feel he could trust him.

Because, if Martin couldn't trust him _now_, with one of the most important decisions of his life, then what was Douglas? Just some washed-up old pilot with a dodgy past, who could look forward to a pretty lonely retirement in some modern, anonymous flat. _Irrelevant_.

And he didn't _want_ to feel irrelevant.

Somehow, Martin had got under his skin; had become far more than a silly, obsessive, plane-obsessed little man. He was _family_. Oh, they all were family, of course, but Arthur had Carolyn and Carolyn had Herc these days (and wasn't _that_ a bitter irony – to be pushed aside by the only man at Air England to be divorced more times than himself). Martin had come to represent something important to Douglas – something that he couldn't quite name, but nevertheless knew was missing from his life.

He'd have felt better about it if Martin _had_ told the truth. At least then, if he accepted the job, Douglas could take pleasure in the fact that his younger colleague was going places. He'd miss him, certainly, but they'd keep in touch. He might even get an invitation to the wedding, if the lovely Princess Theresa succeeded in getting her boyfriend's priorities sorted out. He would be able to see that wide, slightly dazed, smile that lit up Martin's face all too infrequently – and would know that he was happy.

Instead, Martin had chosen to conceal the outcome – had ignored Douglas' careful attempts to nudge the truth out of him. He hadn't trusted Douglas enough to talk to him.

But maybe Martin was right to be cautious? What would Douglas have said if Martin _had_ confessed to him this afternoon and asked him what he should do?

He could imagine it all too well. He'd have told him not to be so _damned stupid_ and get to on the radio right now and tell Swiss Air that he would see them in three months. He would have ridden roughshod over all of Martin's objectives. He would have told him that if anyone offered him such an opportunity, he'd snap it up just like _that_ – and that Martin should count himself lucky to _have_ such an opportunity.

In other words, he'd have behaved just like the overbearing father that Martin had spent his whole life trying to escape. The father that hadn't wanted him to waste his money on trying to get his pilot licence. The father that haunted him still, even from beyond the grave.

He would have done _exactly_ what Herc had been trying to counsel him against. Treated Martin like nothing more than an irresponsible child.

And so Douglas made a decision. If Martin _did_ come to him – if he _did_ do Douglas the very great honour of trusting him with his dilemma, Douglas would be exactly what his colleague needed. A friend.

He would listen quietly; he would talk it through to help Martin see all the pros and cons. He would cast aside his preconceptions, forget about what _he_ would have done in Martin's place or what was the 'right' thing to do, and simply let Martin make possibly the most important decision of his professional life. And he would accept that decision and defend it, whatever it might turn out to be.

It was the _least_ he could do, in payment for all the years of bickering, of teasing, of insulting Martin with words intended to wound, of trying to influence his decisions, of trying to be the father that Martin didn't want or need… This was something he _could_ do. _Must_ do.

Because, for all that he needed Martin to fill a space in his own life… it was just possible that Martin might need Douglas to fill a space in _his_ life too.


End file.
